The morning is warm and wet.
Dewdrops curve across
the branches of the bush
beside Gran’s porch.
The drops look like
glass tears.
Granddad is working
in his garden out back.
Me and Charlie
let our garden die when
we forgot to water it.
I’ll share what I grow
in my garden so you don’t
have to eat that trash
Bee brings over, he said
when he found out.
He only trusts
the food he grows or kills
with his own two hands.
I watch Granddad pick up dirt
and let it slide between his fingers.
He sits back on his heels and wipes
his hands on dirty overalls.
Granddad looks at me.
Why don’t you give me
a hand, Paulie? he says.
I kneel beside him,
and we work together.
He tells me a story
of his railroad days,
when men laid miles
of track in a day,
and a story about Gran
playing the fiddle
while he played guitar,
and how he taught my daddy
and Aunt Bee to play guitar, too.
She doesn’t
play anymore, he says.
Wouldn’t even take
Reta’s old piano we gave her.
Reta is Gran.
real soft, like it’s just
a thought he didn’t mean
to say out loud.